London, 1882
“You don’t need me to remind you that he’s a worldly man,” her mother had said as she laid a lavender sachet among Ada’s freshly laundered pantalettes. “He’s known women who can anticipate his desires before he knows them himself.”
Ada looked up at the enameled ceiling of Henry Aldridge’s music room and wondered who on earth could have expected her to anticipate this. She was naked from the waist down; the velvet damask of the daybed cushion felt soft against her backside. Henry had placed her hands over her head before taking his seat; her fingers remained obediently locked on the armrest. The position freed her breasts from the top of her corset; the boning pushed them up into voluptuous shapes that even Ada knew looked delectable. Her nipples stiffened immediately, though she wasn’t sure whether it was the slight chill of the open air or Henry’s gaze.
The tickle between her thighs was growing into a longing. She turned to look at Henry. He took a slow sip of brandy, but his eyes were alert, his pupils enlarged. His was not the jaded gaze of the slightly drunk hedonist: he gripped his glass and watched her with an eagerness that veered on predatory. Ada bit her lip and admitted to herself that Henry’s lust-sharpened gaze excited her.
“Ah!”
The moan had escaped her lips almost before she could process the pleasure. She arched her back and savored the sensation of growing unmistakably wet. The man who had been kneeling patiently before her, kissing and nibbling her inner thighs, had, without further preamble, licked the length of her slit, pausing at the very top. Her breasts quivered above her corset as she caught her breath.
She looked again at Henry. He smiled faintly.
“Julian,” he said, raising his glass to his lips, “make her come!”
Ada heard Julian Hansard, London’s most brilliant young barrister, laugh softly to himself as he insinuated his tongue between her legs.
This had not always been the arrangement.
Having never been a gentleman’s mistress before, Ada might not have thought Henry Aldridge an eccentric man, but even she knew that hers was not the life of an ordinary mistress. He defied nearly all of Ada’s mother’s predictions. Upon settling the matter with Aldridge six months before, her mother had gently told Ada it was likely that Aldridge would find a comfortable flat for her in Chelsea or some other respectable—but distant—neighborhood. He would visit her until boredom set in or until he got married (“assuming,” she had said, “that he’s in love with his wife at the beginning”). Regardless of how quickly Aldridge’s ardor waned, the arrangement ensured that the gambling debts left behind by Ada’s father would be erased. And if Ada was clever, she could parlay her successful run with Aldridge into a liaison with an even wealthier protector.
But then Aldridge had moved Ada directly into his Grosvenor Square house. Her mother had gone slack-jawed at the news. Ada’s well-appointed rooms could not, she swore, have been more beautiful had she secured an arrangement with a duke. Aldridge had then invited London’s most sought-after modiste to fashion a new wardrobe for her. Madame Ladouceur had asked no questions as she measured Ada and scribbled notes and figures. Ada had stood before the gilt cheval mirror and watched the diminutive Frenchwoman scamper about with fabric samples and fashion sketches. Perhaps it was true that the French weren’t easily scandalized, she mused as Madame Ladouceur talked her into trying the new style of bustle.
Most shocking of all was that Aldridge wasn’t seducible—at least not by any of the means her mother had taught her. None of the stratagems Ada had painstakingly practiced—playing coy, holding herself aloof, listening with rapt attention—seemed to arouse him. He was quite impervious to her “creature of mystery” performance. Her pouty lips and arch looks across the dinner table were all for naught.
Yet if he had no use for the wiles of a trained mistress, he certainly seemed quite aroused by her in general. He often clutched her by the waist as he passed her in the hallway and kissed her, his tongue tasting hers, until she was desperate to press against him. “Why, Ada,” he would sometimes whisper into her hair after kissing her breathless, “are you asking me to fuck you?”
“Yes,” she would say, looking dazedly at his beautifully sculptured mouth. “Please fuck me, Henry.”
And that, she had learned, was the way to get fucked by Henry Aldridge. Playing the coquette got one nowhere fast. One simply asked for it, and one got it. It wasn’t even necessary to ask much of the time: Henry occasionally took her from behind over the table after tea. Some evenings, before dinner, he watched Ada’s maid dress her only to send the maid away and fuck her until dinner was, much to the cook’s chagrin, quite ruined. Ada couldn’t imagine what the servants said behind their backs. She trusted he was the only gentlemen in Belgravia—in all of London, really—who fucked Bayan Escort Antep his mistress against the sideboard moments after the breakfast trays had been cleared.
She was afraid to ask her mother whether Henry’s behavior could be considered aberrant. The truth was that she didn’t want her mother to fear that she had become a madman’s mistress. The other truth was that she liked it. All of it. If Henry was a deviant, then so was she.
This evening, however, was different. This was an entirely new variety of decadence. Henry was watching from his wingback chair as Julian Hansard, the up-and-coming barrister who was pursued by wealthy criminals almost as zealously as he was pursued by marriageable young ladies, buried his face between her thighs.
Had Julian asked to share her? Had Henry simply made an offer? Were such agreements made over games of whist? She only knew that when she stepped into the billiard room after dinner, the air in the room had felt strange. Julian had smiled at her as a footman handed him a fresh glass of port. Then Henry had led her to the music room and told her what was to happen. She had stood in wide-eyed silence.
“He’ll do anything you’d like,” Henry had said, gesturing for O’Hara—when had her maid been summoned to the music room?—to help her out of her dinner dress. “I might point out, though, that his former mistresses swear his tongue serves him in bed as well as it does in court.”
O’Hara’s face remained impassive as she gingerly unbuttoned Ada’s silk bodice.
“But where will you be, Henry?” She searched his face and found him distracted by the sight of her décolletage. “Henry?”
He looked up at last and kissed her as if O’Hara were not right there quietly working. Ada noted that his lips tasted of brandy.
“I’ll be enjoying the view.” He smiled and pulled a loose pin from her hair. “O’Hara,” he said, not looking at the maid, “take the hair down, too. I want everything gone except the corset.”
Twenty hazy minutes later, Ada discovered that the rumors about Julian Hansard were true: His mouth was agile and fearless. His long fingers splayed over her inner thighs, pushing them apart. His lips kissed, tasted, and suckled every inch of her pussy. She was so wet that feared Julian would find it repellant. There was simply no stopping it; every plunge of his tongue sent fresh shocks of pleasure to her core.
Julian paused to look at her, his chin shiny with her juices. He licked his lips affably; Ada blushed. “She’s beautiful, Aldridge!” he called out, not looking at Henry.
“The most beautiful,” replied Henry, cupping his snifter of brandy. “Are you going to make her come or not?”
“At least once.” Julian pushed his middle finger inside her.
Her eyes fluttered shut and she sighed.
“Yes, and will that be this week or next?” Henry smirked.
“Oh, shut up.” Julian chuckled before inserting a second finger. Ada gasped as her pussy convulsed lightly.
She was quite at a loss. Julian and Henry spoke as if she weren’t there, yet she was the reason they were both hard and, for all their good humor, unmistakably on edge. She was the object of their tipsy lust, but that was just it: She had never felt more like an object. And the really shocking thing—the thing that she would never tell a soul—was that she liked it.
But now Julian’s tongue was circling her clit, and her sharp cry echoed through the music room. His fingers were pumped in and out of her wetness; his other hand roved over her body, pausing to squeeze her hip hard.
Ada watched Julian in fascination. The taste of her pussy seemed to have intoxicated him utterly. He savored it the way she savored the profiteroles Henry sometimes ordered for her breakfast even though it put his poor cook to so much trouble. She couldn’t imagine anyone finding her pussy so delicious, but Julian seemed quite lost in sensation. He occasionally looked up to gauge her reaction or to watch her breasts heave and flush with arousal, but more often his eyes were blissfully closed as he tasted her.
She turned to look at Henry. She didn’t need to see the bulge in his trousers to know that he was aroused; he breathed shallowly, his jaw tight as a drum, as he watched her go mindless with need. Through the rising tide of pleasure, she looked at him until he met her gaze. He almost didn’t appear to recognize her.
Julian was plunging his tongue in and out of her pussy, and her hands clawed at the cushion of the daybed. Her body moved of its own volition, rounding her back and pushing her pussy hard against Julian’s mouth.
“Henry!”
Her shuddery cry echoed through the music room and went unanswered. Julian’s tongue moved tirelessly inside her; Henry leaned forward as if watching a particularly suspenseful bit of theater.
She could scarcely guess why she called for Henry. It wasn’t a plea for rescue or even an attempt to imagine Henry in Julian’s place. It was just that she’d come to associate pleasure so closely with Henry’s name, she supposed, that it simply burst from her lips when her body was vibrating.
Julian groaned as her pussy thrust against his mouth. She didn’t hear the music room door open.
“By all means, show him in.”
Ada’s eyes snapped open. Even Julian’s tongue stilled inside her.
She watched the butler dart back out. Henry looked at her expectantly.
“I’m sorry, darling.” He made a little moue of displeasure. “You were close, weren’t you?”
She simply blinked at him for a moment. “Yes, but I—Henry, who is—”
But the door was already opening. Sir Anthony Weston had taken the liberty of showing himself in. She heard Julian chuckle to himself.
Henry didn’t move from his chair. “Weston! Already been to the Athenaeum?”
“Yes,” said Weston, his eyes betraying more shock than his voice.
“Lost all your money, have you?” Henry smirked.
“For the night.”
Ada searched Sir Anthony’s face for signs of disingenuousness. Had Henry summoned him here for the purpose of watching her? Had Sir Anthony asked to be included in Julian’s and Henry’s arrangement? His gaze, in any case, seemed to hold little more than hotly aroused disbelief.
“Make yourself useful, will you, Weston?”
Ada felt her stomach turn over. What on earth did that mean? She looked at Julian, but he was already running his fingers over the insides of her thighs and lowering his mouth to her pussy. Oh, God, she was going to be rendered senseless again soon.
She looked once more at Henry. She could hear his low, intent whisper to Sir Anthony but couldn’t make out the words.
Julian’s tongue parted her pussy lips. Her head fell back against the daybed.
Sir Anthony Weston was courting an American heiress who seemed as enchanted by his baronetcy as he was by her fortune. Ada sincerely hoped he would get his heiress; she liked him well enough and wanted to see him happily settled.
But of course, she thought as she watched Sir Anthony approach the daybed through half-closed lids, she hardly knew him. He and Ada had teased Henry over his fogyish taste in art, and he had once held her hand a breath too long as he bade her goodnight. That had been the extent of their acquaintance. And yet now he was kneeling at her side as another man licked her pussy for her lover’s delectation.
She parted her lips as if to speak—what could she possibly say?—but Sir Anthony shook his head almost imperceptibly as he shushed her gently with a long, smooth finger. Her teeth raked over his fingertip as it pushed past her lips. Looking shyly up at him, she pursed her lips and sucked his salty finger into her mouth. His eyes narrowed.
Julian held his tongue firmly against her clit. She closed her eyes and moaned around Sir Anthony’s finger. She felt the finger withdraw from her mouth and trail down her chin to her chest and finally to her left breast. It circled her taut nipple and finally flicked the hot, rosy tip. Julian’s lips closed softly around her clit.
“Please!” Her voice was tight with delayed pleasure.
She couldn’t have said exactly what she was begging for. She didn’t particularly want either of these men—handsome and capable though they were—to continue. But if they stopped, she would surely burst into tears.
Sir Anthony’s other hand glided up to cup her right breast. She moaned and arched her back into the caress; it was impossible to keep still when his hands made her feel as if her body existed solely to arouse and satisfy him. Julian answered her moan by lightly sucking her clit between his lips.
Before she knew it, Ada was coming for Henry’s friends.
The next moments were a fevered rush. Her cries were muffled into Sir Anthony’s mouth as he kissed her hard. She twisted away from the kiss to catch her breath, but his mouth followed hers, prying her lips open with his tongue and swallowing her moans. His hands moved restlessly over her breasts, pausing to pluck at her nipples. Julian suckled her clit, groaning as she mashed her pussy against his face, riding out the pleasure.
She was still moaning, still struggling to catch her breath. If Sir Anthony didn’t release her lips soon, she was going to pass out. His tongue plunged in deeply to taste her mouth. Julian—thank God—had released her clit and was now idly stroking her pussy lips and inner thighs.
“That’ll be quite enough, Weston.”
Ada wondered whether Sir Anthony heard the pique in Henry’s voice. She took a few gulping breaths as Sir Anthony finally broke off the kiss and looked at Henry.
“Gentlemen,” he said, rising to his feet, “I trust you won’t mind if I invite you to take a bottle of sherry with you to your mistresses?” He kept his gaze fixed on Ada. “With my compliments.”
She bit back a squeal as Sir Anthony’s fingers continued to trace soft circles around her oversensitive nipples; Julian watched her breasts rise and fall as she caught her breath. When neither Julian nor Sir Anthony moved immediately, Henry rang for the butler. “Or claret. Or port. I don’t especially care. Take what you like. Mr. Darby will see to everything.”
Ada smiled feebly at Henry’s friends as they rose to leave. As they stood above her, she instinctively moved to cover herself, but Julian seized her hand—it was too late for modesty anyway—and kissed it with enough aplomb to convince her that this was not the first time he had pleasured one of Henry’s mistresses. Sir Anthony bowed sheepishly.
Henry was still looking at her. She struggled to read his opaque eyes as he bade his friends goodnight without bothering to watch them go. At the far end of the music room, Mr. Darby, who had undoubtedly assisted with plenty of things like this, sleepily ushered out Julian and Sir Anthony, who hazarded one last look at her as the door was shut behind him.
Her focus snapped back to Henry, who was stepping soundlessly toward the daybed. Her hand again moved instinctively to cover herself. Somehow Henry’s scrutiny made her feel more exposed than she had felt as two men pleasured her for the amusement of a third.
“Did you come hard, Ada?” He undid his black cashmere trousers.
She nodded briefly and watched him with wide eyes.
“Did you enjoy that?” He freed his erection and put one knee on the daybed.
Ada swallowed hard and wondered how long she could put off answering. This entire game had confounded her utterly. She had gone from the shocked ingénue to the debauchee to this new role—a woman Henry was apparently displeased with—in the space of a few hours. He had clearly meant her to enjoy it in the beginning, but now he seemed inclined to begrudge her enjoyment. His voice was laced with irritation, his manner remote even as he slid his hands up her legs and pushed her knees apart. Was he jealous? Did a man who shared his mistresses with his friends get jealous? It made no sense.
But what was she supposed to do? Could she have refused Henry’s request? Was that what she was supposed to do all along? Perhaps that was what her mother would have said. She had given away too much of her power in going so far to satisfy Henry’s whims.
Henry’s knee was now pushing between her thighs. She gasped and again tried to read the hard lines around his mouth, tried to divine the right answer to his question.
“Ada!”
He spoke her name as if it were a warning—as if he had just noticed a stray ember from the fireplace land on the train of her dress. He gripped her legs and placed them on his shoulders before driving hard into her. She was still wet from Julian’s tongue, wet from coming against his face. But she was also wet from Henry’s mere presence in the room.
His gaze alighted on her mouth as she moaned her pleasure. Henry was not one to indulge in slow, leisurely fucks, but he had never pounded her quite so relentlessly. She reached behind her to clutch the armrest, leaving her breasts free to move in time to his thrusts. She wanted to provoke Henry further with her body, wanted him to be beside himself with desire.
Despite the frenetic roughness of his movement, Ada tightened her pussy around his cock and smiled as he closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. This, she realized, was what she had been begging for as Henry’s friends stroked and kissed and licked her to climax. She had ultimately been begging for Henry.
She looked up at him. His eyes were bleary with raw lust. “Henry, I—”
He wrapped one hand firmly around her throat. “Lie there and get fucked,” he said, his jaw clenched.
Ada stared at him in shock even as his words and the force of his cock sent fresh shudders of arousal down her body. He was plainly punishing her, though she couldn’t say for what, and this was not the moment to ask. In any case, Henry was gripping her throat as he fucked her, and the sensation was precipitating her next climax faster than she could have guessed. She watched him through half-closed eyelids and felt her moans vibrate against his hand.
A light sheen of sweat had broken out across Henry’s forehead. He had remained fully clothed as he took her on the daybed. Ada found the vulnerability of her position—all but naked and pinned under him in a tangle of limbs—so erotic that her pussy quivered around him.
“God damn it,” he hissed.
Releasing her throat, Henry grabbed her right leg and moved it from his shoulder, stacking her hips to the right. Ada stared up at him, her hands still locked on the armrest behind her head. His cock was still buried deep inside her; he moved with tantalizing slowness.
He paused just long enough to give her ass a noisy swat. She squealed.
“Henry,” she breathed, but before she could say, “I need to come,” he pushed two thick fingers past her lips. She eagerly worked her tongue as he gently finger-fucked her mouth.
Every inch of her screamed for release. Squeezing her thighs together, she pushed harder against his cock. Her lips sucked greedily at his fingers as she squirmed and writhed to find her gratification as quickly as possible.
Bir yanıt bırakın